Cotton’s Memory

cotton in framecotton has a memory

dreams that never went away

a land of cotton with a memory

held close like lovers mementos

whispered quietly  in board rooms that smell

of linen & avarice living quiet lives at

the dinner parties of judges where DA’s bring

California wines as tokens   the memory of

cotton dances on soft summer breezes over

golf courses and brunches at country clubs

where tanned blonde women work on their back swings

contemplating inheriting grandmother’s Tiffany diamonds

the ones with the freshwater pearls   cotton has water dreams

transatlantic bottom of the ocean dreams that scream

in my neighborhood sometimes silent muffled cries

sometimes no noise escapes lips hold the pain down inside where it cuts like

rusty scissors infections are frequent

you can hear cotton screaming out loud

sirens and random howls punctuated

by gunfire as life exits snares cotton laid centuries ago then silence

cotton has a memory recorded on white sheets in high places

makes absolution in hoods drinks holy water while

burning crosses in the name of martyr tied to a crucifix praying

to distract the watchful while cotton leverages its nightmares

cotton has not slept for years may not be prayerful but is ever awake

sins of the father’s greed in the heart fear of retribution require

protection from reciprocity

blood on the ground hexes best cotton

thinks     cotton knows that even if we can not afford to remember

 we will never forget so cotton remembers to remember

hoping we melt in the smelting pot drink the kool aid forget to remember  or disappear

cotton knows sleeping dogs wake up hungry   why not sheep lions & people

scarred by cottons crooked crossings   cotton’s caravan in the ocean dreams

& cotton’s relentless vigilance

cotton documents archives studies researches

plans to maintain contain by any means

wants to know what you remember   wants to know if you are comfortable asleep

cotton says its not important to remember best survive right now

cotton remembers

it remembers simpler times

bills of sale

when the buildings on wall street were

single story centers of industry

when life was a song sung

by a field gang on

a quiet night

in picking

time

cotton

rememberscotton field trinkets

About Ayodele Nzinga, MFA, PhD

I create; therefore I am.
This entry was posted in Black Arts, Poetry, spokenword and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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